Page 52 - Tales Apocalyptic and Dystopian

High Tex and the Orbies
(Fantastic Transactions 3, 2006)

Ottley D. Nye found his way to the only room possibly habitable
in the crumbling structure identified as the space center
administration offices by the barely legible stains remaining from a
row of metallic letters long since scavenged. Ground floor, one
window glazed against all odds and the steady sirocco. It must have
been a big shot’s, maybe the parking lot superintendent’s, Ottley
surmised. A doorless dim hallway gave easy access and immediate
respite from the elements now so unfavorably combined.
The visitor threw back the hood of his patchwork cloak, removed
his slit goggles and squinted at the smudged scrap of hand-lettered
cardboard squashed into the nameplate bracket next to the office
door: High Tex, Provisioner. Not many people had doors these days;
even fewer, offices. Ottley’s shriveled memory struggled with the
protocol. Knock. Yes, knock.
“Come on in. Slowly. Hands where I can see them.” The voice
within passed through the scarred panel cracked and harsh, timbres
familiar and reassuring to Ottley. He pushed open the door and
cautiously entered a room larger than any he had ever seen. It had to
be at least twelve feet square. Its occupant, gaunt and withered, rose
from behind a battered desk facing the lone window. Something
creaked; Ottley, dependent on eardrums normally humming in
sympathy with the winds of hell on earth, could not tell if the sound
came from his host or the ancient swivel chair he had been
occupying.
“You got past the checkpoint. Your name.”
Ottley hesitated, his eyes riveted on the biggest zip gun he had ever
seen, pointed unwaveringly at his face by High Tex.
“Nye. You sent for me. If you mean the shack at the gate two
miles down the road, it was deserted. But it took me half a day to get
around the fence to find it. Directions I got in Centerville didn’t
include your security arrangements. That chain link won’t last long if
it’s unguarded.”

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